Friday, 20 May 2016

Please Please Fondule Me

Smales and Swagger


‘Please Please Fondule Me’

Part 5

Warning: These continuing erotic explorations of elderly couple Penny Smales and Gerald Swagger are not intended for a younger audience. Please do not read if easily offended or aroused.

Recap for the slow of study:

Penny and Gerald are a wealthy, elderly couple. They have recently been told that an experimental and vigorous sex life will extend life in a fun and exciting way.

Gerald is still manacled to the bed. Poor Sod. And now he has a porno mag attached to his forehead with a coathanger.

MP for Firkbury, Corbin Nitley has insisted that Doctor Hilary Portions call the police to report that WPC Clumpfoot has been electrocuted, stripped and now lies decomposing under a rug in the living room. They have gone off to find a telephone for the purpose of.


The stage is now momentarily empty, except for the tin bath that fizzles and sparks occasionally. Then we see, through the door stage right, a fishing rod. This has a large boot attached to the end of it and it extends across the stage towards the tin bath. The boot descends into the water. Nothing happens.

The owner of the fishing rod, Harold Snout, now enters followed by his butcher’s mate Dibbler. Both are dressed in butcher’s aprons. Snout’s looks like it might have blood on it. As he enters, he reels the boot in and makes to cast it into the corner, its usefulness over. The boot swings into Dibbler’s face.

Dibbler: Ow! Why did you do that, Mr Snout?

Snout: Quiet, Dibbler. Take that boot out of your face and put it down over there. Shut your noise and listen. You’re making more racket than the famous Amazon squawking bird.

Dibbler: Sorry, Mr Snout. I can’t hear anything. Can you?

Snout: Only the sound of your filthy, heavy breathing, Dibbler.

Dibbler: Sorry, Mr Snout. But why did we have the boot in the first place?

Snout: Because, bird brain, it was a decoy. If we heard anyone reacting to the boot on the fishing line along the lines of ‘Oh look! A boot on a fishing line!’ we’d know that certain parties were still awake, wouldn’t we? Then we could leg it.

Dibbler: What, like the famous Amazon squawking birds?

Snout: No, not them. I mean pensioners who carry on committing those acts of filth and degradation.

Dibbler: Then whack them in the face with the boot?

Snout: Good thinking, Dibbler.

Dibbler: But what if they’d caught the boot, yanked it hard and pulled us into the room, though? What would we do then?

Snout: What those two? Well, we would’ve improvised. Used our wits and intelligence, Dibbler. You could have said something like: ‘Oh look, there’s my lost boot. How did it get here? Here’s your reward for returning it as promised.’

Dibbler: I see. But I haven’t lost my boot, Mr Snout.

Snout: (irritated) I’ll give you the boot in a minute, Dibbler. Shut up. I need to think. Now, nobody’s home. Good. That Mrs Smales and Mr Swagger have buggered off to bed, the perverts.

Dibbler: I’ve got a funny feeling in my stomach, Mr Snout. Like we’re being watched.

Snout: That’s just nerves. When you’ve been on as many black ops as I have, Dibbler, you soon get used to it. Here. You didn’t eat any of that bacon did you?

Dibbler: No, Mr Snout. I only ate the bacon that you gave me. I didn’t touch none of that bacon you put aside for Mrs Smales with the sleeping powder on it.

Snout: They’ll be out for hours. It’ll give us plenty of time to find the loot and scarper.

Dibbler: Where shall we look?

Snout: I don’t know yet, do I, Dibbler?

Snout sits down thoughtfully on one of the coffee table chairs and pats his pockets looking for his cigarettes. Dibbler sits on an adjacent seat and puts his legs on the table.

Dibbler: (sniggering) Are you looking for your snout, Mr Snout?

Snout: Yes I am, Dibbler, thank you, and I’ve told you before if you make that joke again I’ll give you a thick ear.

Dibbler: That’s cruelty to workers, Mr Snout, I’ll have the union on you.

Snout: Are you a member of the union, Dibbler?

Dibbler: No, Mr Snout, you wouldn’t let me join.

Snout: (clipping him round the ear) Then take that, you moron.

Ignoring the protesting Dibbler, Snout lights his fag and parks his boots on the table, calmly surveying the room and taking a deep drag.

Snout: Course, when I was inside, you understand, it was perfectly acceptable to call it snout. With a name like Snout, it could be very confusing for the cons. The screws would ask for snout and they’d be given me instead. You know, in a ‘where’s the snout, Snout’ sort of a way.

Dibbler: Must have made life a bit confusing for you, Mr Snout.

Snout: Yes, I was in a right state by the end of it. They didn’t know whether to give me a suck or a blow.

Dibbler: Mr Snout?

Snout: Yes, Dibbler?

Dibbler: I’ve been meaning to ask you…how do you know there’s loot here, anyway?

Snout: (emphatically) Course there’s loot here, Dibbler, those two are loaded. How else can you explain their comings and goings? Television celebrities, honourable members, the clergy: always around here in a constant state of arousal. Why do you think? They all want to get their snouts in the trough and cream off a bit of the action. And do you ever see them two down the bank?

Dibbler: No.

Snout: That means that somewhere in this house is wads of lovely loot. Well with those two out for the count, we’ve got plenty of time to search, bag it up and have it away. Clever trick of mine. Lace their bacon with sleeping potion then give it an hour.

(Snout stubs his cigarette out into the palm of his hand, then gets up)

Dibbler: Do you believe all those stories about dirty deeds, Mr Snout? I mean, once you get to your age nothing much happens in the trouser department does it?

Snout: You cheeky git. What do you mean my age? I’m not so old I can’t cut the mustard you know? Right, Dibbler. We’ll split up. You have a good poke around in here. Leave no stone unturned. I’ll hunt around through the rest of the house. Don’t make too much noise and leave the porn alone.

Dibbler: What if we don’t find nothing?

Snout: Well, we’ll drug those two buggers again and have another look next week, won’t we.

Dibbler: I’m scared, Mr Snout. I keep feeling all this is going to end in disaster for us.

Snout: Don’t be such a fanny, Dibbler. What can possibly go wrong?

Snout exits upstage centre, leaving Dibbler on his own. Dibbler starts to poke around.

He looks in various drawers, pulling out and playing with sexual toys of various shapes and sizes – dildos, vibrators, condoms, porn DVDs,  electronic stuff, Some of which he pockets.

He finds the remote control to the bed. Bored, he collects a small armful of sexy stuff and, armed with the remote, he points it at the television, expecting porn to come on. He wriggles salaciously as though he might start to pleasure himself and unzips his trousers in a most suggestive way.

He points the remote at the TV and presses. As he does, the bed rotates so that Gerald is in the room and he is in the dungeon. The dungeon is darkened but what he sees is shocking. Dibbler screams and presses again, the bed rotates back. He is back in the living quarters

Dibbler: (loudly and in fear) Oh my God, what was that? Mr Snout! Mr Snout!

Dibbler jumps off the seat and immediately trips over WPC Clumpfoot’s corpse. He tears the rug off and screams loudly clutching torn bra, stockings and panties. He runs around the room in panic, dropping the shredded clothes

Dibbler: Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, a dead body, a dead body, I touched a dead body. What’s on my hands? The maniacs, the perverted maniacs! Shit, shit, shit….Mr Snout! Mr Snout! Must wash my hands…must wash my hands!

Seeing the tin bath, Dibbler plunges his hands into it. There is a flash, a sizzle and smoke as before. Dibbler lets out a blood curdling scream, falls next to WPC Clumpfoot and the lights go down once again.

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